Seething Mortis
by RecklessRedcoat
Summary: An enslaved Empire swordsman. A calculating Skaven warlord. An anxious Chaos lord of Khorne. These 3 souls will cross in many ways and set events in motion that could bring about the downfall of Nuln and the Empire itself. Clan Mortis is rising, and before long it will unite all the Skaven clans under one banner and swallow the world whole in strife and brutality.


**This is kind of a random story I've concocted a while ago. If it gets enough praise I will continue it.**

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They marched in ranks, hobbled and in chains. The grim squelching of their bare and torn feet tearing through the sludge of the under city growled through the dank halls. Daylight was being cut off from behind with every step, or limp. Marcus Gasebowe breathed heavily, as his endless march earned him more cuts and accelerated his fatigue. He was stripped of his proud Empire swordsman uniform and reduced to tattered rags which covered his torso and went down to his knees, like an overgrown, yet worn shirt. The Nuln soldier skulked in his formation, flinching slightly at the distant sound of a merciless cracking of a whip, followed by harsh cries and feral roars. His long brown hair was matted and dirty, clung to his forehead with sweat and dried blood. He gazed around himself as he walked onwards, ignoring the frightful glares of the other prisoners he was forced to accompany in this chained pack of twenty.

He scanned the endless underground passage. It was clearly going on for miles and miles. The pathway itself, despite the awful terrain and swarming pests, was so spacious and empty you could march an entire Empire army under here and appear through the large cave entrance undetected, this is evidently the rinse and repeat tactic of his captors. He only began to realise how deep under the earth he was when he looked skywards. The ceiling was shrouded in darkness, and large rusty iron structures dominated the sides of the passage, evidently columns to keep the ceiling from collapsing whilst also acting as a barrier to show the large ravines either side, lighting the underground with a greenish tint from the waters at the bottom. Marcus's rank of slaves were on the very edge too; how fortunate. It was clear now, even though the ground was a sludgy quagmire, he could still feel cold iron in patches. An iron road. He was being lead along with these sorry bastards into the heart of some kind of undercity; this was the bridge. Even though his mind was slowly shutting down from the grasp of tiredness, his mind wandered to what evil fate had brought him here.

* * *

_We had marched for days and days, yet nothing came of it. The battalion saw zero action in our patrol around Avercon. But that's their favourite playing card; be unexpected and strike with a ravenous surprise. They struck like a thunderbolt, hundreds of bodies exploding from the bushes and growth, picking off the outside soldiers and hand gunners with spear jabs and grasps, heaving them into the treeline where their screams were cut short with the fall of a blade or a snap of teeth. I fought my corner and I fought it hard. But there was too many of them._

* * *

He hissed quietly as his left foot inevitably pressed on a shard of metal, the tip piercing the soft flesh of his foot, warm blood leaving his body and coating the remnants of an Empire trooper's sword, rendered broken and dead. Much like his battalion. What do you know? Seems the Empire had attempted to utilise this passage after all. Obviously it was a grisly failure. He continued the march as the slaver ragged the chains, pulling his foot striding into the sludge, no doubt setting the possibility of infection in stone. His arms were a myriad of tears and cuts from both jagged sword and bites from the creatures, wrists red, raw and bleeding from the crude iron shackles around his wrist, binding him in chains to the slaves in front and behind him. As did their cuffs and vice versa. The collar around his neck dug in with every step, the serrated metal scratching the flesh of his neck as the iron bar connecting them together scraped and rocked with every misstep from one slave or the other. He fought his hardest and truest; slaying them by the dozen as the berserk warriors were zero match for a master fencer like himself. His careful and precise sword strokes splitting organs, piercing throats and sleekly gashing the lightly armoured opponents.

* * *

_The battle was over before it began. The auburn ground turned to crimson, and the abandoned forest road was littered with the dead and dismembered bodies of rats and men alike. I was alone with a few more state troops, drawing ourselves into a tight makeshift circle. The captain was dead. Killed by the warlock's hand; what was left of it. It was a fan of blades with a single protruding barrel, evidently some kind of pistol. The captain was struck to his knees; his stomach opened by the vicious mixture of knives, and stared defiantly down the barrel. Emerald green barked from the muzzle, the captain's head marked with a hole, crawling with a green mist that bled as his corpse tumbled to the ground. The crash of his armour was louder than any war machine I had ever heard._

* * *

"Come on, you scoundrels! Move-move!" A callous voice cracked from ahead, followed by the snapping of a whip. A petrified howl pierced Marcus's ears, the very cry visualising the perpetual fear in his own and his other slaves' eyes. He heard the running of water and stared behind him, exhaling at the soul-wrenching sight of fear at its worst. The Skavenslave was mumbling to himself, running his hands over each other continuously, almost compulsively. He wore only a worn tunic below the waist, exposing his fur ragged body, the dirty hair clumped together and even missing in some patches, revealing red marks from fleas and wrinkled peachy fur, almost the same pigment of Marcus's own. The trickling was coming from his legs, and Marcus looked down to see that, even in this low light, he could see the clump of damp fur from where the wretched creature had urinated itself in terror. Its legs shook like an earthquake and Marcus couldn't help but feel pity for this lowly rat.

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_The clanrats stormed our 'circle', taking individual strikes with swords and spears. We deflected them all and responded with halberd sweeps, spear thrusts or sword lunges; each one claimed a life. But like men do, we tire. We held for minutes, every five seconds we added another disgusting rat to the mound of corpses at our feet. But as we grew more tired, they started getting lucky, or we started getting careless. The halberdiers were first to go, their cumbersome swings and jabs predictable and time-consuming. Mid-swing, a clanrat's blade would thrust upwards into his chest, piercing his heart and dropping him like a ton of bricks. Mid-stab, the Skaven grasped his halberd and drew him out of the circle, piling over him with howling frenzy. We couldn't afford to break from their cries as the rat-men sated the Black Hunger. Spearmen were next to fall. Limited attack patterns meant quick adaption to survivors and observers. Predicted lunges were countered with shield deflections and fiendish cuts, decapitating soldiers left and right of me. Our morale broke and we four swordsmen split, fighting our own battles in desperation. It was the end, but I knew I was going to take as many of these underling peasants with me._

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Marcus caught the gaze of the broken slave. His mumbling fading into the darkness and echoes. His dull scarlet eyes showed no evil, but curiosity. Marcus, much like the slave just watched him intently, the shorter rat's teeth rubbing on its cut lips. He sighed and turned his head back to the direction they were marching. He couldn't help but notice the same glowering eyes watching him from the right. He didn't need to turn to know the Skavenslaves to the right were eyeing him with suspicion. They had never seen a human before; let alone a warrior of the empire who was trained to kill filth like them. And that's all the Skavenslaves were. Filth.

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_Our four declined to two rapidly, exhaustion leaving two perfectly capable swordsmen at the mercy of the flesh-hungry clanrats. These poor bastards were carved down with multiple repetitive strikes to the throat and chest, the cruel rusty blades puncturing the Nuln breastplates with a sickening ease. We fought with whatever fury we could muster; the buggers kept coming. Soon, Angelo was gone, courtesy of a black-furred stormvermin. The bastard rat-man's halberd carved through him cleaner than a blazing knife through butter. Stefan avenged his death with a vicious stroke that hewed the Skaven's head from his shoulders. But he fell too almost instantly, a clanrat, evidently the clawleader, latched onto his back like a frenzied rider on a horse, sinking its protruding incisors into his throat, biting and gorging itself on the soft flesh of Stefan's throat as lifeblood jets all over the rat, damping and clumping its fur together as it growled and grumbled with murderous hunger. Cries became gurgles, as he dropped to his knees, succumbing to the wound as the clanrat champion continued to feed._

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Marcus fell in unison as one of the head Skavenslaves fell with a deep exhale, fatigue taking its toll, tumbling over the edge of the ravine. Marcus groaned as the other slaves howled and screamed, many dug their claws into the sludge in a bid to buy time, trying to balance and raise themselves with the dead weight of the collapsed slave in front dangling off the ledge, the iron bar suspending him like a hanged criminal. His arms went slack and he gurgled through the sickness. The large iron bar which was connected to their cruel collars was weighing down with the comatose slave. Soon the entire rank of slaves will be dragged down screaming to their invisible and long deaths, even with full strength and a human, they couldn't fight the water or the weight of the metal bar and shackles. The barks and howls made it all too clear to Marcus that it was drawing the attention of a particular master moulder. He grunted with grief and put his remaining strength into supporting his fellow slaves to stand and drag the dead or dying slave back onto the road. The master moulder advanced slyly, and stopped to Marcus's left, a cruel smile on its rat face at his concentration and straining agony. It hissed through teeth in satisfaction. Other packmasters came into view, coming to the aid of the downed slave. The master moulder however sharply halted them with a hand gesture, keeping his gaze fixed firmly on Marcus in wonder.

"Wait-wait! Look at this…" The brutal rat whispered in wonder, crouching down and mocking Marcus, studying him like a lab rat, how ironic. This cruel bastard had taken a 'liking' to him. "Teamwork. The man-thing is trying to support these foolish minions." One of the pack masters made a movement towards the gurgling and mumbling slave, with a things-catcher, the barbed vice snapping in test as he attempted to seize this slave as quickly and carelessly as possible, caring not for the flesh and bone damage the cumbersome claw will cause. The slave wheezed, whilst he was bringing the rest of the rank down. The master moulder on the other hand, cracked a whip at the outstretched hand of the pack master which wielded the things-catcher. He squawked and backed away, dropping the claw to the floor with a wet splash, eyes burning at the moulder.

"Enough Makrag! Cut him loose-loose!" The pack master howled. Makrag grunted and locked eyes with Marcus, who was too busy trying to stabilise the rank as the other Skavenslaves were failing. Makrag leaned in closer, and Marcus felt his hot stinking breath condense on his throat and head.

"Come on fool-fool. Pull." Marcus groaned in agony, desperately avoiding eye contact with the fiendish master moulder, denying him the luxury of staring into his breaking soul. Makrag grinned and leaned back at the invisible challenge, returning to his full height.

"PULL!" Snapping the whip at Marcus's leg, the multi metal-tipped leather lash slashing into his leg, leaving an ugly claw mark which began to bleed. Marcus cried in torment, with Makrag's laughing merging as one unholy sound of torture. Marcus's mind faded, as did Makrag's voice. Even the regular smacks of the whip began to dull as Marcus pondered what had gone wrong in his life.

* * *

_I ran through the clanrat champion, his mouth caked with Stefan's blood as it decided it needed a moving target. The only thing that could satisfy was my blade, its high pitched squeaks and whines ringing my ears. The angle of the Skaven, the weight of its armour and the stab of my sword aided the descent of the clanrat, who after landing, did not move again. As I began to roar a litany of hatred from Sigmar himself, I didn't foresee the sharp pain of a knife carving into my arm, disarming my shield as it sliced the buckles from my wrist. I turn to face the clanrat, only to see no clanrat, but a master moulder. These champions were fabled for their cruelty and prestige in handling ginormous beasts, so what was one man? It was clad in plate armour, a series of plates joining to form pouldrons and greaves. Yet however, his chest was unarmoured, revealing a greying body of fur, perfect and not a single tear mark or sign of battle, almost like a noble Skaven had just stepped onto the front lines. This appearance was deceiving._

_The master moulder advanced, whip tearing trails in the ground as he lashed at my arms, every strike dented the now matt steel armour and bruised my skin beneath. Thinking fast on the sixth strike, I seized the whip in my cut left shield hand, tearing the infernal weapon from the Skaven's hand. The rat hissed and charged me with an unsuspecting fury, tackling me to the ground and pinning me in place. The moulder raised his knife, preparing to cut my still beating heart out of my chest. I responded with a wide horizontal sword swipe, creasing the fur and drawing substantial blood. The Skaven screamed in discomfort and loosened his weight on me, allowing me to buck him off. As I regained my bearings to impale the wretched bastard on the floor, I didn't anticipate nor could I stop the shaft of the stormvermin's halberd crashing into my head. I felt cold. Lightweight, and I felt my world spinning into blackness as I tumbled to the ground, darkness taking me._

* * *

Marcus roared with effort, spittle flinging onto his dark beard as he strained to heave the ranks of Skaven. More bellowing echoed, as the rank slipped further, the slave behind the hanging one now slipped over the ledge, screaming with fright as he dug his dirty claws into the iron floor, desperate to not drag the rank down with him. Marcus's ears were fiddled with the maniacal chatter of the Skavenslaves behind him, preaching to the Horned Rat for protection. Marcus knew this was the end. Where he would die, at the bottom of a Skaven city.

* * *

_I awoke, vision hazy, to the sight of many soldier who survived the initial fight, restrained and struggling. Their roars of defiance and litanies of protection from Sigmar muffled from my splitting headache. I could feel the blood running from the cut on my scalp, it was all too obvious. The soldiers who survived were not lasting long, as they were being executed in no order whatsoever in a variety of disgusting ways. Some soldiers will have their throats hacked at while still conscious, resulting in a crude decapitation whilst they were still struggling, others had their throats simply slit open, allowing them to bleed and fall with a crash. Others were subjected to having their throats torn out by the Skaven's bare teeth. There was zero code of honour or right of execution with these curs, just as long as they brutally butcher their victims and they get to feel the blood on their fur, anything works for them._

_Time seemed to slow down as I notice a stormvermin menacingly advancing towards me, the black furred rat's teeth bared with a sinister purpose. Its armour was chipped and dull, spiked helmet cruel in appearance, and he dragged his halberd across the floor like a useless limb, evidently building a vicious momentum to strike my head off. I look into the burning red eyes as it raises the halberd. But I hear the cawing voice, halting the stormvermin in his tracks. The headache clears, and so does my vision and hearing. The master moulder which I nearly gutted stood in front of me, the stormvermin disappointed and stressed behind him. This foul creature crouches down until he is at eye level with me, he draws back his lips, smiling with a wicked intent._

"_You let this one live-live. He's mine." The Skaven growled with a grisly joy, the stormvermin grunting in dismay before storming off to behead some other sorry bastard._

"_As you wish Makrag." The stormvermin said dryly with zero emotion. I felt the hot breath of the moulder, called Makrag, stick to my face, reeking of rotting flesh and stale breath._

"_I'm going to have some serious fun-fun with __**YOU, **__man-thing." Makrag smiled genuinely, before striking me again in the left temple with a sharp palm. I feel blood running from my nose, as once again I collapse, unconsciousness dragging me down. As my vision dulls again, I hear his callous voice fade away. "It'll be interesting…to see…how many whips you can take…" But Sigmar had smiled on me that day, he preserved me, kept me alive. As long as I live, Nuln always will have hope. I couldn't die, not now. I'm the lucky one._

* * *

Marcus's epiphany caused him to roar through gritted teeth, blood now cracking from his torn gums as he bit hard on his teeth. His veins bulged to the point when they appeared they were going to burst through the skin. He dragged with all his might, Makrag's smile never fading. Marcus heaved with his strong back, the other Skavenslaves dragging with their powerful legs and claws. The hanging Skavenslave was tugged back onto the road, and the entire rank collapsed to the ground on their rears, their exasperated breaths as furious and cacophonous as a steam locomotive. Makrag and the other packmasters hooted with mocking cruelty, and Makrag slapped Marcus's head, shouting into his ear with fervent energy.

"See? SEE-SEE?! That's teamwork man-thing!" Makrag, turned his head with a sigh, looking to the Skavenslave who caused the fiasco. Sighing whilst maintaining his smile, he strode over to the slave who was wheezing blood. Makrag knelt down and straightened him up, peering down into the dark waters below. Makrag sighed once again, before drawing his wicked knife, breaking the chain restraints and freeing the slave. "Can you swim?" He asked, earning no response. "Good." He finished, before shoving the slave forcefully over the ledge. The rank of slaves, along with Marcus screamed with fright as the slave plummeted into the waters, and didn't reappear. Marcus saw from that one slave, and the insane laughter of Makrag and the packmasters how doomed he truly was. He should have died that day. He was the unlucky one.

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